


Something He Doesn’t Quite Understand

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: Age Difference, Blood and Injury, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Protectiveness, Teen Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24761320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: New York City, 1943Jerry finds himself fascinated by Dean's cologne and figures it couldn't hurt to try a little...
Relationships: Dean Martin & Jerry Lewis - Relationship, Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Something He Doesn’t Quite Understand

“Hey, kid, you fall asleep in there, or what?”

“Just a minute, Dean!”

“Listen, Jer, it’s about time someone told you no amount of work’s gonna make that hair look good, so—” 

“This is coming from _you_? The fella goin’ at it with his own personal grooming kit? Ho-ho, that’s a rich one, Dean Martin.”

Dean thumps the door and rattles it. He could come in and drag him out – the lock’s stiff and Jerry didn’t trust it not to get stuck and trap him in here, and while the image of Dean heroically breaking down the door to save him tickles Jerry no end, he thought better of it – but Jerry knows he won’t. There’s a chuckle, receding footsteps, and Jerry beams at the wood, face burning, unspeakably glad that no one can see him and only a _little_ embarrassed that he has, in fact, been spending all this time on his hair. That wasn’t his intention, just a quick check in the mirror, a little more pomade and a sweep of the comb before heading out, but then he couldn’t get the angle right, and he thought the pompadour was a little too high, and the next thing he knew nearly ten minutes had passed and his friend’s patience was running thin. Now he’s almost sure he looks presentable, and as he turns away from the sink, something catches his eye.

He wasn’t exaggerating about Dean’s personal grooming kit. Figures, Jerry thinks, a fella looking the way Dean looks would have all the necessary equipment to _keep_ himself looking that way. (Jerry tries to ignore the fact that he’s seen Dean first thing in the morning, so knows firsthand that he could go without anything extra and still look like he stepped out of a painting – a fact that certainly has _not_ taken up space in Jerry’s head that would be better served by something more useful, something that doesn’t give him a weird breathless tingle in his stomach.) In fact, Dean was just in here doing exactly that, and he’s left behind his leather toiletry bag, balanced on the cistern.

Jerry tilts his head, frowning a little. He spotted it before, but then he was busy looking in the mirror, and as he looks at it now, an idea forms in his head. Quite without meaning to, he reaches out to carefully finger the zipper. Wouldn’t hurt, he thinks, to take a quick look, just to see the sort of stuff Dean uses, the stuff he likes. Maybe he might even get an idea of what he, Jerry, ought to be using, too. He really does think Dean wouldn’t come in here without knocking or asking first, so there’s no reason he’d get caught. _Caught?_ His heart thuds. _I’m not committing a crime!_ He swallows, looks over his shoulder with an exaggerated nonchalance, partially convinced that someone, somewhere, some _how_ might be watching, and unzips the bag, covering the sound with a cough.

The kit falls neatly open on top of the cistern. It’s a simple thing made of brown leather, with a long black comb, a shoe horn and a silver nail file tucked on one side, and three black boxes and a bottle of cologne on the other. Jerry thinks the long, thin box must be for Dean’s razor, but then he remembers the separate black shaving kit he’s seen somewhere, so figures maybe it’s his toothbrush. (An unwelcome image of Jerry brushing his own teeth with it sends heat like a rash up his back, and he shoves it away.) The other boxes? One must be for soap, and on closer inspection, Jerry sees the other has small black bristles underneath. A brush, then.

At last, his eyes drift to the small bottle, and before he knows what’s happened, he’s slid it out to sit cradled in his palm. For no good reason he can see, he’s started trembling. He realises there’s not much left, just a finger of rich amber liquid, catching gold in the tepid bathroom light. He swallows. With a hasty glance over his shoulder just to make sure, he pops off the short cylindrical brown cap and raises the trigger to his nose.

He knows it. Of course he knows it. He’s smelled it on Dean before now. Once or twice (or twelve times) he’s buried his face in Dean’s neck and had whole lungfuls of it. For Jerry, it’s the most delicious contrast: Dean here in New York, all pimp shoes and Harry horseshit coats, smoke and scotch and exhaust fumes, but this little amber bottle like condensed fall, as though he’s stepped out from between the trees, crackling leaves and cool sunlight filtering through pines, so clear in Jerry’s mind he could reach out and pick needles from his curls.

Jerry wets his lips. He rocks a fingertip back and forth on the trigger.

Just a little couldn’t hurt. Dean might not even notice... and if he _does_ notice, if he keeps track of the level in the bottle, or if he smells it on Jerry, well, probably he won’t mind. Jerry thinks he could make a joke about it, bat his eyelashes and make Dean shove him playfully away, and everything might be all right. Yes, everything _will_ be all right because Dean is his friend and, joke or not, won’t make a big deal out of it, Jerry’s _sure_ he won’t make a big deal out of it.

He hopes he won’t make a big deal out of it.

He takes a breath, swallows the cantaloupe lodged in his throat, and closes his eyes.

Dean thumps the door, hard.

Jerry jumps, fumbling the bottle. He watches it slip from his hand, watches it strike the corner of the sink and ricochet – helpless, hopeless, glinting cruelly in the tepid light – watches his life end on the bathroom floor.

It explodes. One hundred, one million shards scatter, skitter to the four winds, and he’s smacked in the face by a heady, sickly aroma, and if he weren’t already dead he might vomit, sways with it anyway, stomach lurching, and somewhere, distant, awful, a voice calling out, and Jerry throws himself down and scoops haphazard handfuls of glinting shards and pungent cologne into the centre of the room, into some semblance of a pile, as though he could, by sheer force of will, _push_ the bottle back together again, and every drop of aftershave back in its place, too.

There’s a deep slice of pain, and then a sting like iodine, and he cries out, slammed back to life, staring at speckled red tile and glass.

“Jesus Christ.”

His head snaps up. Dean stares from the doorway, eyes hard and wide and trained on the mess Jerry’s made.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” He chokes it out, throat and eyes and nose thick, hot, and a sick draining ache in his hand. “I’m—”

Dean steps forward. One huge paw clamps on to Jerry’s wrist and jerks him to his feet. Crying out, face streaming, he stares desperately at his friend: “I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Dean pulls him to the sink, runs water, and shoves his hand under the faucet. Jerry gasps, flinches; Dean holds firm. The pain recedes, thuds dully, and Jerry risks a glance down.

The pad of his thumb is split cleanly. As he watches, the water ripples the edges of the cut, and he feels all the blood drain from his head. A soft, weak moan flutes between his lips, and he wrenches his head around, searching for something, _anything_ to focus on, not the cut, not the wound, the blood, and _God_ not the broken bottle beneath him.

The room tilts, walls bulging. _Don’t faint_ , he thinks, _don’t faint, don’t faint._

“Jerry.”

He clamps his eyes shut and pictures the wound again, blood welling; his stomach flips, cramps.

“Look at me.”

He looks. Dean’s eyes hold his, steady and warm. Jerry’s heart thuds – in his chest, his head, his hand.

“Just look at me, all right?”

He sucks his bottom lip and nods. His vision swims, refocuses, and homes in on one errant black curl resting on Dean’s brow. It calms him, that one lock of hair, and he keeps his eyes trained there, vaguely aware of Dean holding his hand, of Dean reaching for a towel, of Dean muttering, cursing softly, and Jerry wants to reach out and push the lock of hair away from Dean’s forehead, wants to stroke the sun-kissed skin, slightly damp now with sweat, wants to soothe the vein pulsing in his temple.

His left hand, unhurt, clenches into a trembling fist.

The water’s stopped running, and Jerry feels his poor hurt hand wrapped up gently in a towel. Dean puts his own hands around the bundle and presses. Jerry squirms. His good hand darts out, reaching, finds Dean’s jacket and holds on tight.

“I’m hurting you,” Dean says. His voice is hard, half-asking, half-knowing.

Jerry shakes his head furiously and manages: “I’m sorry.”

Dean frowns at him. “Why?”

“I broke it.” He sobs then, just once, and manages to sniff it back into his head. “I’ll replace it, I—” 

“Oh, don't worry about that,” Dean says. “Matter of fact, you picked a good thing to break.”

“Huh?”

“Cologne,” Dean says. “There's alcohol in it. Only Jerry Lewis could get a self-cleaning cut.”

Jerry sniffles, but feels the corners of his mouth twitch and wants to laugh, almost manages it, too, but it’s thick and wet and sounds wrong. Dean’s hand brushes a tear from his cheek and stays there. Stays there. Jerry offers a watery smile.

“Ready to take a look?” Dean asks softly.

Jerry grimaces. “You look.”

“Sure,” he says, and Jerry watches his face, watches his expression as he unfolds the towel: a little frown, upper lip drawn back and dropped, quickly, and then his eyes, all warm brown and crinkling corners, on Jerry’s again. “You'll be all right.” But he’s wrapped it up again, and helps Jerry hold it high above his head. “C’mon – careful, now.” Dean leads him out, around the shards, but there are so many Jerry hears them crunch, flinching at each reminder ground into the floor, so cruel he might as well be barefoot.

Dean sits with him on the bed. Jerry looks away, hears something about doing good, doing real good, so brave, and then there’s cool air on his hand, and whispers of pressure and pain as Dean wipes with the towel.

“What were you thinking?” His voice is so soft; Jerry wants to look at him but doesn’t think he’s ready to see whatever’s on his face right now.

He shrugs, sniffs. “Wasn’t thinking.”

“Figures,” Dean says. Jerry can’t think what to say. Well, no, that’s not right, not exactly. There’s so _much_ he wants to say, he couldn’t possibly think where to start. Already _Sorry_ he’s said but that’s not enough. And Dean’s voice and hands so kind and gentle with him now, maybe nothing he can think of is enough, maybe it won’t ever be. So, not _Sorry_ again, but an explanation – or an attempt at one, at least, just to try, just to make it okay.

“I—” It catches, squeaks. Clearing his throat, he forces his head to turn. Dean’s watching him, head tilted. “I was just...” He has to look away again. “I was just looking.”

Dean laughs softly. “Just looking?”

“Well, no, not just looking. I was… I wanted to – try some. You know, of your cologne. Just to… I don’t know, just to see.” He wants to joke, wants to put on a Voice and declare _You smell good, boy!_ , but can’t make it. Instead, he shrugs, can’t meet Dean’s eye. “Smells good.” His voice is almost gone, but Dean hears him and chuckles. Jerry looks at him now, loves how he looks when he chuckles like that, especially when he’s the one who _made_ him look like that, showing his teeth, head slightly inclined and shaking back and forth as if he’s saying _This kid_ , saying _Listen to this kid._

Jerry’s hand throbs; he’s sure it’s still bleeding. Dean takes his elbow gently and raises the arm again. “Keep it up,” he says. Jerry nods, and Dean reaches into his jacket to pull out a handkerchief. He lays it on his lap, smooths it, takes one corner and folds it over into a triangle. It’s a little messy – the handkerchief’s a rectangle, not a square, and Dean tuts softly, shaking his head. Jerry laughs a little and watches Dean fold it over again. He’s not sure what this shape is: a very long hexagon, with a small triangle poking out at the top. Dean smooths it again and looks at Jerry.

“Need to take a look now.”

Jerry blanches. “Okay,” he says hoarsely, and lets Dean take his hand and hold it between them, lets him slowly unwrap the towel, revealing one clean layer, and then one stained in reddish-brown. He moans softly, shakes his head.

“You’re all right.” One of Dean’s hands touches his knee. “You’re okay. See the brown? That means it’s drying. There’s not much there. All right?”

Jerry’s teeth worry at his bottom lip, and he forces himself to swallow the fear, to look his friend in the eye and nod.

“Good boy,” he whispers, and Jerry feels like he’s been lit on fire. His heart hammers, the wound in his hand screaming, and he needs suddenly to be the Idiot, to be the biggest Idiot in the world, but he can’t do it, can’t think of a thing to say, can’t understand how Dean has silenced him completely with two words. _Good boy_ , he thinks, like a child, repeating it. _I’m a good boy._

The towel is tossed to the floor, and Jerry can’t look directly at the cut, sees red well in his peripheral vision and almost slides off the bed. But he wants – _needs_ – to see what Dean is doing with that handkerchief, and manages somehow to look past his pale, long-fingered, wounded hand, to look at Dean, who unbuttons Jerry’s damp cuff and rolls the sleeve up to his elbow. Jerry keeps his hand as high as he can, palm up so the blood won’t trickle down his wrist or drip on to the bed, and Dean picks up the strange shape he’s made and says, “Okay? Might hurt a little.”

Jerry nods.

Keeping the long hexagon in one hand, Dean puts his other underneath Jerry’s, not quite holding, just helping. He twists his wrist and lays the handkerchief on Jerry’s palm, the little triangle poking between his thumb and forefinger. He presses down gently, apologises, whispers _I know, Jer_ , and takes one end of the soft white cotton and folds it behind Jerry’s hand, tucks the corner under the first layer of the triangle. “Can you hold it there?” he asks, and Jerry nods, closes the gap with the edge of his thumb; the cut twinges. Quickly, deftly, Dean takes the loose corner and wraps it the other way, circling Jerry’s wrist, and pulls it, pulls it so it’s snug, so it hurts a little, and tucks it away.

Jerry studies the makeshift bandage. It’s a little like a glove, except there are no fingers, and it’s tighter than a glove too, and not warm, strange but good, and he likes it a lot, probably because it’s Dean’s, likes it despite the scarlet that blooms even as he watches. There isn’t much; it gives up after a second, and he’s left with a hand that aches but, he thinks, no longer bleeds.

The Idiot asks, “Do I need stitches?”

Dean sighs, and Jerry thinks it sounds lovely and kind and not at all exasperated or angry or anything like that, but maybe even fond, like he doesn’t mind at all that some jerky kid cut himself and cried about it, doesn’t mind cleaning the wound and wrapping it up nice and gentle and staying with him until he feels better, until he feels like nothing could ever hurt him again, until a strange part of him wants to _be_ hurt again, not so badly, just a little, so Dean will tend to that, too, and sigh fondly again and look at him the way he’s looking at him now.

“No, Jerry,” he says. “It’s not that bad.”

Jerry shivers and coughs and says, “But the blood—”

“I know.” His eyes go tight, the corner of his mouth twitches, and there’s a soft quick hiss of air between his teeth. “Looked worse than it was, all right?”

“All right,” Jerry says. He reaches up and tugs gently with his good hand at Dean’s curls, watches his mouth relax into a bemused smile. “I believe you.” And then, quieter: “You patch yourself up after boxing sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” Dean says. His voice sounds faraway. He’s frowning, and for just a second Jerry feels fingers on the inside of his wrist. Then he gets up, goes away, lights a cigarette and smokes it staring out the window. From his spot on the bed, Jerry can’t see his face, but he can see his hand, can see the jagged pinkie that hurts his heart. He thinks about what Dean just did for him, and pictures himself washing Dean’s hand, wrapping it up in a towel, folding a handkerchief special for him, and healing it, making it perfect.

What if it were as easy as that?

Dean looks at him then. “Sorry for grabbin’ you.” It comes out fast, low, muffled somehow, like he can’t make his lips and tongue cooperate. His eyes flick from somewhere over Jerry’s head to the floor and back again.

“Mm?” Jerry frowns at his wrist. Below the makeshift bandage are faded red marks, and it takes a moment for him to remember Dean’s hand clamped below the wound. He strokes them, these impressions of Dean’s fingers. They hurt a little; he didn’t notice before, but then he was distracted by the bigger pain. But this pain is small, and a part of him likes it. He likes that Dean’s left a mark. Sometimes, when they’re together, Dean will touch him, just for a second, and although he knows it’s crazy, Jerry will go the whole day or night feeling that hand on him, will be half-convinced he’ll check later on and find Dean’s handprint like a brand between his shoulder blades, or curved around his arm. For once, he’s right. It feels good to be right. “’Sall right.” He shrugs. “You were tryna help.” He smiles, hoping to reassure him. “I thought you were mad at me.”

Dean’s eyes go hard. “I... I wouldn’t hurt you like that on purpose, Jerry.”

“I know. Just...”

“What?”

“I got scared, that’s all.”

Dean’s face does a funny thing then. He looks like he’s been hit, like he might throw up or scream, like he might cry or break something, or leave the room and never come back. Jerry’s chest feels tight. He wants to go over there, put his arms around his friend and keep him in the room. He hates that something he said made Dean’s lovely face all twisted and wrong and wants to make it right, but he’s frozen; his head feels heavy and hot, and he wishes he could take it back.

“It's okay,” he manages, a hoarse whisper. “I’m okay, Dean.”

Dean says nothing. Jerry bows his head and fidgets, stroking the handkerchief, the red stain already faded to brown. “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

“What?” He's so quiet, like he’s not really listening.

“Your cologne,” Jerry says and coughs. “A-and your handkerchief,” he finishes, miserable. He swipes at his eyes.

“I don’t care about that.”

He looks up. Dean’s crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. His face is back to normal. “It’s just a handkerchief, Jer.”

“But your cologne, too, I—”

“So what? Matter of fact,” he adds, before Jerry can stop him, “look at this.” He goes to the dresser and picks up a small paper bag. “Went shopping yesterday. I wasn’t hurting for it, but something made me pick it up.” He reaches in and pulls out a small bottle filled with amber liquid and topped with a small cylindrical brown cap. “How d'ya figure that?” He chuckles and hands the cologne to Jerry, who takes it, eyes bugging.

”You knew,” he says, softly awed.

“How would I know? Coincidence, that’s all.”

Jerry looks at him, incredulous. “Dean, you said yourself, you didn’t _need_ it. But something made you buy it, a part of you _knew_ —”

Dean taps his forehead. “What an imagination.” But he’s smiling, and he takes Jerry’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and jiggles his head a little. “Coincidence. That’s all it is.” He shrugs, letting go of Jerry’s face. “Woulda had to buy one in a couple weeks anyway.”

But Jerry’s stuck on this, his brain overheating. “It’s… fate, or something.”

“ _Fate_?” Dean covers his face, muttering in Italian. “Listen to this kid. Fate, he says.” With a sigh, he bends down to retrieve the stained towel. “You work on that theory, kid, I’ll be back.”

Jerry watches him disappear into the bathroom, listens to the soft tinkling of glass as Dean cleans up. He rolls the bottle along his thigh and thinks about that word, how _right_ it feels. Maybe Dean’s right, maybe he just bought a new bottle earlier than usual – there was only a finger left, anyhow – but a nagging whisper at the base of his skull says different. _Fate_ , he thinks. Fate, like sitting next to a nice fella who pokes fun at your messy eating and who, it just so happens, knows a friend of yours, a friend who introduces you not long after. Fate, like being alone and lonely in a big city and meeting someone who makes you feel like you’ve never been alone, and will never be lonely ever again, right when you really needed to meet someone like that. Fate, like buying a new bottle of cologne the day before some skinny Jew wreaks havoc in your bathroom.

Dean comes back then. He’s holding the towel, weighed down and dripping, in one hand, and has his toiletry bag tucked under his arm. Dropping the remains of Jerry’s mess into a wastebasket, he turns to the bed and holds up the leather kit. “I forget to close it or what?”

Jerry flushes. “I was snooping.” _Easier this way_ , he thinks. _Let Dean decide if he wants you around after this, boy._

“Ah.” He nods sagely and puts the kit on the dresser. “You know, Jer, next time you wanna use my stuff, just ask, okay? Don’t go right to breakin’ shit.” His eyes sparkle just a little, and Jerry wants suddenly to jump on his neck, curls his toes in his shoes to have something else to focus on.

“Didn’t mean it,” he says, head bowed in contrition, but his lips quirk, and he fights back a grin. “Like I said, just wanted to try a little, is all.” He shrugs and looks up. Dean’s frowning, head tilted. He holds his right arm with his left hand and studies him awhile. Jerry wonders why he doesn’t squirm, why he doesn’t feel uncomfortable under such scrutiny. He feels _seen_ , completely, like Dean’s looking through his skin to see not muscle and sinew and bone, but thought and feeling, fear and desire, and something else Jerry isn’t sure he has a name for yet. He wonders why he doesn’t flush, doesn’t look away or let the Idiot out of his cage. He wonders why he can relax here, under that gaze, and waits patiently in front of his friend.

“Here.” Dean smiles gently. “Gimme that.” He takes the bottle from Jerry and pops off the cap. “Head back.”

Jerry tilts his head back and hears a hiss, feels mist against his throat. Wood and spices, citrus hints curl up over his chin, slip into his nostrils, and work warm tendrils around the nape of his neck. He swallows. Somewhere, there’s a neat _snap_ – the cap put back into place – and Jerry looks up at Dean who watches him with such a warm expression that Jerry blushes, furiously, heat spreading to the tips of his fingers, all the moisture gone from his mouth, and one huge pulse of not-quite-pain in his hand.

He holds the front of his shirt and dips his head to sniff himself. Smiling into the cotton, he glances shyly up at Dean.

“I don’t think it suits me.”

“I coulda told you that.”

He pouts – or tries to, anyhow, unable to stop his mouth twitching, widening, cracking his skull into a huge grin.

“Smells better than oranges,” Dean adds, and before Jerry can retort, he ruffles his hair, mussing the pompadour and smearing his own hand in pomade. He wipes it on his pants, exaggerating a grimace that makes Jerry giggle.

“After I spent so long making it all pretty for you.”

Dean snorts. “You call this _pretty_?”

Jerry ignores him and sighs, flops on to the mattress. “All that time wasted. Guess I’ll have to do it all over again.”

“Oh, no, you don’t, you can’t be trusted in there.”

Jerry laughs and rolls on to his back. He holds his hand up high and studies it, how neat the bandage looks even with the brown stain. He tells himself it’s just another thing Dean’s naturally perfect at, and nothing to do with the necessity of dressing wounds after a fight. He thinks about Dean, hurt, a cut above his eye or on his cheek. He sees himself stroking bruises, scrapes, lowering his mouth to soothe it that way.

He swallows, fidgets. “You forgot something.” He almost can’t believe it’s his own voice, so quiet, faraway and thoughtful.

“What’s that?”

“You gotta kiss it.”

Dean snorts. “C’mon, Jer.”

“No, I mean it.” He rolls on to his side. “It’s the only way.” He pouts. “You want it to heal right, don’t you?”

Dean sighs, sends his eyes heavenward. “Yes, I want it to heal right.”

“Then you _gotta_ kiss it. Sorry, Dean, I don’t make the rules.”

“Sure about that? Seems like something you’d make up.”

Jerry tucks his legs beneath him and holds out his hand, beaming. Dean’s teeth snag his top lip and then, sighing, he takes gentle hold of Jerry’s wrist and bows his head to rest his mouth on the pad of his thumb – through layers of cotton, but still, Jerry feels it differently. He leans away, and Jerry waits for a line, for some exasperated glib comment, but Dean pauses. His gaze has drifted to the red marks on Jerry’s arm. He shakes his head. Then he leans in once more and kisses the inside of Jerry’s wrist.

Jerry hates the noise he makes, something like a gasp, a soft shocked little cry, and he can’t find any words, can only watch Dean walk away and light another cigarette. He strokes his wrist, the red marks, wishes crazily that Dean’s mouth could have left an impression behind, and shoves that away, hates that idea, hates how much he _likes_ that idea.

“Dean?”

“Hm?” He glances at him, easy, nonchalant. “What is it, Jerry?”

“Well, I…” He wets his lips. “I was just thinking, you know.”

“Always dangerous,” Dean says.

Jerry laughs, too short and loud, and shakes his head. “I was thinking that… that, you know, cleaning up all that glass musta been pretty dangerous, you know? A-and, you know, because I’m the schmuck who made the mess, I feel bad. And I was thinking, you know, maybe you… maybe you got c-cut somewhere?”

“You were thinking maybe I got cut somewhere?” Dean nods, one eyebrow raised.

“Yeah! A-and maybe, you know, maybe I could help with that.”

Dean looks at him. He’s doing that thing again, looking right inside him, but this time Jerry squirms, doesn’t like what Dean might see there.

“Help?”

“Yeah,” Jerry says. “Help.”

Dean sighs. He smokes and looks away, apparently fascinated by the wall or the sconce over the bed. When he finally looks back at Jerry, there’s a bemused smile on his face. “I’m all right, Jer.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He goes to him, chucks him gently under the chin. “Don’t worry about it.”

Jerry, hurting a little and still, despite the instruction, full of worry for something he doesn’t quite understand, puts his arms around Dean.

Dean, who chuckles softly and shakes his head in fond exasperation, puts his arms around Jerry.

**Author's Note:**

> Certain parts of this fic - Dean bandaging the wound with his handkerchief, the line about the self-cleaning cut, Jerry angling to kiss any wounds Dean might have suffered - were ideas from togetherboth, who is wonderful, and whose fics you should read immediately.


End file.
